Here’s What It’s Like to Drive Lamborghini’s Miura Masterpiece

“The Miura is like Michelangelo’s statue of David,” says Mitja Borkert, Lamborghini’s director of design. “It was timeless and ahead of its time. Going from the 350 GT [the first production Lamborghini, launched in 1964] to the Miura in just two years, the acceleration in design was incredible—and it continued into the Countach.”

Borkert and I are inside a pit garage at the Imola circuit in northern Italy, our conversation regularly punctuated by the V-10 battle cry of a Huracán Super Trofeo howling along the start-finish straight. Hundreds of owners and enthusiasts have gathered here for Lamborghini Arena—a two-day festival to celebrate all things Raging Bull, including the 60th anniversary of the Miura. 

At a gala dinner that evening, Borkert introduces the marque’s new V-12 hybrid, the Fenomeno Roadster. Its bright Blu Cepheus paint pays homage to the one-off Miura Roadster, built by Bertone in 1968. And Borkert notes that there are other links between the latest and, in the case of the Miura, arguably the greatest Lamborghinis.

“Look at the shape of the Fenomeno’s tail, and the S-ducts in its nose, which are like the twin grilles on the Miura.” Even today, Sant’Agata’s first supercar—and what many consider the world’s first supercar—is a rich source of inspiration.  

Early the next morning, I’m back at Imola to fulfill a lifelong dream, which is to drive a Miura. My brain is buzzing after a rocket-fuel Italian espresso and my stomach is full of butterflies. Will this be a “never meet your heroes” moment? The Miura is rarely lauded as a great driver’s car, after all. Signing an insurance waiver that values “my” Miura at 2.8 million euros (around $3.3 million) does little to calm the nerves. 

The Miura in question is a P400 SV painted in vivid Giallo Fly yellow, one of the 150 examples of the model variant built between 1971 and ‘73. Recognizable by its lack of headlight “eyelashes,” its wider haunches, and its blockier (still Fiat-sourced) taillamps, the SV is fit with a mid-mounted 3.9-liter V-12 that musters 385 hp at a heady 7,850 rpm. Part of a collection at the factory museum, it is maintained by Lamborghini’s Polo Storico heritage department. 

“Every Miura has its own story,” says Giuliano Cassataro, head of aftersales at Polo Storico. “We have restored some of the most famous examples, including [Miura chassis designer] Giampaolo Dallara’s car and the Miura from the film The Italian Job. A full restoration and certification takes around two years, and some parts, such as the alloy wheels, are now being remanufactured. We want these cars to be driven.”

I’m happy to oblige. Taking a deep breath, I push the delicate door release and drop into a low-slung seat. You recline with arms outstretched and legs splayed either side of the steering wheel. Headroom is fine for my 5-foot 8-inch frame, but anyone taller than six feet will be sitting with knees grazing their elbows. At least the pedals aren’t awkwardly offset, unlike many Italian exotics of this era.

Straight ahead are two Jaeger dials in leather-wrapped pods: a speedo that doesn’t even start until 40 km/h and a rev counter that reads to 10,000 rpm. Your view through the louvred rear window is mostly obscured by an enormous air cleaner and two of the four triple-barrel Weber carburetors. The single, pod-shaped wing mirror is next to useless. 

I twist the key and briefly blip the throttle to help the V-12 clear its throat. The sharp flare of revs is almost motorcycle-like, then it settles to a smooth but impatient idle. Despite the Miura’s gearbox being mounted at some distance, behind its transverse engine (a layout inspired by the Austin Mini), the pistol-grip lever moves positively around the open metal gate. With most of the weight centered within the chassis, the non-assisted steering is also lighter than I’d expected. So far, so good.

At low speeds through the town of Imola and villages beyond it, the most prominent sound is the whining of the rear differential. Once the roads open and the Miura’s tachometer sweeps past 4,000 rpm, however, your ears are nourished by a cultured snarl that builds to a hammering roar. Modern supercars major on carefully tuned intake and exhaust noise, but the Miura is more multilayered and mechanical. More authentic, too. 

Climbing into the hills of Emilia-Romagna, the Miura SV reveals a balance of speed, body control, and braking ability that feel well-matched. There are no traction or stability aids, of course, but the long-travel throttle helps you mete out power safely. The curvaceous front fenders frame your view ahead, rather like a classic Porsche 911, making it easier to position the car on the road. It’s pleasingly compact compared to any 21st century Lamborghini, too.

In spite of its Super Veloce (super fast) name, the SV doesn’t feel outrageously quick, and grip from its bulbous Pirelli Cinturato tires is modest. With no air-con and copious heat-soak through the rear bulkhead (the glass panel behind your head gets almost too hot to touch), driving it hard also feels like a physical workout. But wipe your brow, roll up your sleeves, and get stuck in. The rewards are worth it.

Later that day, I join eight other drivers with their Miuras—including an ultra-rare SVJ—at the front of a 450-car Lamborghini parade around Imola. It’s probably the slowest lap of the former Formula 1 circuit in recorded history, but I stay in second gear and just savor the moment, acutely conscious that I will probably never drive a Miura again.

Maybe that doesn’t matter, though. As the reactions from spectators at Imola prove, even seeing a Miura feels special. Achingly gorgeous from every angle, this is a masterpiece of automotive design. Mitja Borkert is more succinct: “It’s a hell of a beautiful car.”

Click here for more photos of this museum-quality Lamborghini Miura P400 SV.